


Charis

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is something private, intimate, for all they're grunting and hissing out insults as if it weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charis

Sweat dots their skin as they grapple. There are no mats below them, no Ronon or marines watching as John attempts to wrestle his chief scientist into shape. This is something private, intimate, for all they're grunting and hissing out insults as if it weren't.

"Dammit!" John says, abruptly relaxing. Rodney takes that to mean forfeiture and pins John's hands to his side. He's panting harshly, red-face and shiny, and there's an oddly intense look in his eyes. John isn't sure what it means. "Normally you _like_ me on my knees," he grumps, purposefully choosing his words.

Rodney's gaze unfocuses for barely half a second. "Oh, I still do," he says airily, completely at odds with the downward slant to his mouth.

John shifts restlessly, allowing his lower body to brush against Rodney's. "Come on," he tries, lowering his voice seductively, "let me, right here, just like this. Totally under you, with you hot and hard down my throat. Rodney..."

John knows exactly what that particular groan does to Rodney, so it's something of a shock when all Rodney does is _chuckle_. Like John's said something amusing and youthfully naive, a tone that makes John burn with annoyance. He's two god damned years older than Rodney!

Rodney, however, isn't aware of John's mental side-tracking. He's hard, has been since John first attempted to slip down, but it's not an urgent hardness. John can feel foreskin against his thigh, still a little loose and god, he wants to _play_ with that -- run his tongue over and under it, lipping the edges while Rodney curses above him, panting out accusations of barbarism to American medicine that are really more like inverted praises of gratitude, because John is fascinated by the differences and can spend hours cataloging each millimeter.

"Are you going to stay down?" Rodney asks. He watches John's face, eyes flickering back and forth, colorless in Atlantis' intentionally dimmed lighting. Never darkness, for them. They want to see each other too much.

"I could _go_ down."

"Yes, yes, you've made it entirely clear that you are happy being a cocksucker. _My_ cocksucker."

John groans, eyes fluttering. Neither of them are good at dirty talk -- John laughs too much when he isn't blushing, and Rodney's too clinical and precise to ever get the intonations right -- but there are times when some how the silliness works, and more times when Rodney's definitive language is right out of a porn video. Especially when Rodney says _cocksucker_ like that, the dirty innuendo wrapped up in the absolute certainty that John is, that he'd spend hours on his knees, on his belly, jaw stretched to aching while he takes Rodney's cock and just _holds_ \--

John's eyes fly open, glaring accusingly. "Ow!"

"Don't wander," is Rodney's unapologetic reply. He removes his hand from John's sac with a belated caress, dropping it to rest warm and solid over John's stomach. "Did you ever stop to think _why_ I wanted to stop you?"

The floor is slowly warming under John's back, whether from his own prolonged contact or because of understanding sensors, John doesn't care. "No," he says, and he is _not_ whining.

"You didn't care, did you? You couldn't wait for it."

John turns his face away; just because Rodney's right doesn't mean he always likes hearing it. This thing with Rodney, as good as it is, skirts too many lines inside John's mind, too many places intentionally blocked off, ideas he knows better than to even contemplate. Military Commanders aren't _supposed_ to want nothing more than to crawl under briefing room tables and suck on cock -- on Rodney's cock -- while away missions are discussed. They aren't supposed to wake up nosing into Rodney's belly, inhaling -- 

_"Ow!"_

"I _will_ make you pay attention," Rodney says mildly, "so stop wandering. You definitely won't like what I do."

"I might." John grins, twisting his hips slowly so Rodney's cock rubs up against his hip. The hand on his belly feels so _hot_ , weighing him down even more than Rodney's bulk pressing into his side.

Rodney rolls his eyes, whites flashing silver. "Yes, yes, you're a slut, you're a cocksucking whore who can't get enough, yadda, yadda -- hey! What are you -- you _bastard!"_

John grins as he twists again, more purposefully, daring Rodney to try again. Rodney's gotten better at reading body language and he's glowing as they start wrestling again. Their bodies skid across the floor as John tries to get himself lower -- mouth first, and god, he hopes Rodney doesn't actually see that, because he probably looks like a fish and he'd _never_ hear the end of it -- while Rodney is just as frantically trying to get John on his back, above him. 

And that -- that's just the slightest bit off. 

It's clear that Rodney does have some kind of plan, grunting as he hooks a leg around John's waist and displays a move Teyla spent two weeks trying to teach him. John had assumed that Rodney wanted to fuck him, or maybe use some of the toys they both enjoyed probably too much, so when he's constantly pushed onto his _back_ , Rodney huffing out frustrated breaths each time, John sort of ... stops struggling so hard. On his back is not a new position, but Rodney usually likes him on his belly at first, pinned down so he can rub himself off against the bed -- or floor, or wall, or desk -- flexing his back and buttock muscles, something Rodney _really_ likes watching.

But they rarely _start_ with John on his back. Hell, that's usually Rodney's position, eyes wide so he can see everything.

Rodney cries out triumphantly as he lifts John _into the air_ to flip him, instantly planting a hand on John's shoulder and his belly, just to make sure he doesn't get up again. "I'm aware," he pants, "that you... just gave up. I haven't... .decided if that'll go better or -- oh, god, my _back_ \-- worse for you."

"Your back is fine," John grumps, annoyed that Rodney could figure him out so easily. "Your _stamina_ leaves something to be desired, though."

Rodney sniffs. "And just for that, I won't get the cuffs. No, you're going to have to not move because _you_ keep yourself still."

It hits him every time, like a switch only Rodney can find the contours of let alone operate. John's hips jerk upward, cock filling under Rodney's aggrieved words, a sickening twist of military and _John_ rising to the occasion. 

Rodney looks down at him, smug. "Thought so," he says. "Don't move, John. Not for anything."

Rolling his eyes is a useless gesture because Rodney's not looking at him. Well, Rodney's looking at _him_ , yes, but not his face. He's looking at John's chest, studying it for an interminable moment before dropping down to mouth hot, wet kisses over whorls of hair and skin. John shivers, hands opening and closing rhythmically as he tries not to shift his hips, rubbing his cock against nothing at all, tries not to twist so Rodney will brush his mouth against John's nipple.

Tries desperately not to let the sounds building in his throat escape. Rodney _likes_ when he makes noise, overcoming years of training to whimper and groan out mangled words as Rodney moves over him. Right now, though, John's still a little miffed at being denied Rodney's cock, just so Rodney can push him flat and motionless against the floor, licking a trail of fire around his navel.

John had had _plans_. More like fantasies, really, mixed liberally with memories to get him through the last few hours of his very, very long, very, very bad day. But still. He -- 

"Oh," he says. Very softly, an exhalation more than a word. "Oh."

Hands solid and unyielding over John's hips, Rodney looks up to smirk at him just for a moment. "This is why _I'm_ the genius," he quips, letting the words hover in the air before diving back down, mouth open and wide and _god_ swallowing John down to the base.

It's not like they never do this. Rodney is surprisingly good about reciprocity when John wants it, and creative and generous enough that even when they're in their more familiar roles, John has never had any complaints. More the opposite -- sex with Rodney is _fantastic_. He's never been with someone who can be so methodical, so focused as he discovers every nerve-ending, every kink or fantasy John's buried deep, and then creative enough to think of _new_ things they both might like.

But even though it's not quite rare, it is still on the unusual side. John likes blow jobs -- he's male, so he's aware that liking blow jobs is similar to liking _beer_ or perhaps even breathing. That's never been in doubt. But he _loves_ giving them, and he's never met a man who'll say no to that.

Except, apparently, he has.

Rodney is making obscene slurping noises as he slowly works up and down, tongue fluttering out equations on John's skin. His eyes are half closed, blissful, almost, hands heavy as they anchor John's hips to the floor. He's mostly just tasting John, laving over skin, licking away drops as they appear at the tip before pressing his lips into a tight 'o' around the base, mouth hot and tight as it encloses him.

John's panting when Rodney finally eases up for a moment, hands gripping the floor as tightly as the smooth, sweat-slick surface allows. "Hng," he says, which is supposed to be words, but comes out lacking the requisite vowels.

Rodney chuckles, licking pink, swollen lips. "I thought I told you not to move," he says, glancing at John's hands, which have moved maybe a few inches as he scrabbles for purchase. "I think I'll just have to blow you longer."

John's vision goes swirly, body arching up and he's grateful when Rodney grabs his cock and tugs it firmly, settling him back down. "Why?" he grunts.

"Because I want to," Rodney replies, tracing patterns over the thin skin of John's hips. "Because I want _you_ to want to."

The answer makes no sense to him, but he knows there _is_ sense in there, somewhere, and if he were as smart as Rodney maybe he'd figure it out now, but he isn't. Someday, maybe he'll put it together. A later someday because Rodney is sucking his cock again, hard, powerful bobs that almost hurt as he sucks his way up and down, a hint of teeth not a painful distraction but one more note that has John gasping, moaning through clenched teeth.

Rodney is as good at this as he is at just about everything else, learning with frightening speed that today John wants scraping kisses up the underside, teeth not quite hurting, but definitely felt; a tongue skating along the circumcision scar, making the nerves surrounding the deadened skin burn; deep, powerful suction as he slurps over top, tracing the slit. All this and more Rodney does over and over again, reducing John to a whimpering, shivering mass of sensation painstakingly wrung out, drop by drop.

It's _taking_ in the purest form, swallowing John down the way Rodney usually powers in, forcing John to accept, to react instead of act, and that makes his entire body _hum_ with pleasure, gasping for each cold, distant breath. Rodney doesn't stop even when John starts begging, cursing the hand that tugs his balls, or pinches the base of his cock, allowing Rodney to play with him just a little bit longer.

John's going to go insane from this. He knows it, can feel it creeping along his spine, making his hair stand up straight like he's been jolted with electricity and _still_ Rodney _doesn't stop._

Then, almost abruptly, there's a finger next to his cock, pressing hard enough that John jerks upward, a move that would've been a thrust if Rodney's other hand wasn't flat over his belly again, holding him down. John whimpers, knowing what this means and wanting it. He spreads his legs wider, the burn of his muscles pulling mixing with the sensation of a cool, wet finger slipping past the seam of his sac, down over soft, too-sensitive skin to touch and press and please please _please_!

But Rodney doesn't push inside, just hovers there, touching, rubbing, before slipping back down to _pinch_ , one finger wet, the other dry and warm, right over the perineum and John screams, white all around him as he finally comes.

"I don't think I've ever heard you scream before." Rodney's head is pillowed on John's right thigh, his hands running up and down the left. John's grateful for the tactile sensations, giving him something to focus and ground himself with; he's grateful Rodney knows this, without either of them ever discussing it.

"Have," John says. His throat is sore, but he likes that. A lot. "On the jumper -- the bug-thing."

Rodney lifts one hand to wave it lazily. "That was screaming in _pain_ , hardly something I should want to hear, let alone encourage. Idiot. I meant screaming in _pleasure_." 

He sounds incredibly smug, and John's too wrung out to bother calling him on it. Like far, far too many things, Rodney's smug arrogance exists for a reason. Damn him. "Well, now you have. Was it everything you wanted?"

"Mm, sarcasm. You're feeling better." 

The unspoken 'good' rings loudly and for a moment John wonders just what the hell is going on in Rodney's mind. There's method to Rodney's madness, like always, but John has no idea what it might be. He's pretty sure he won't know even when he has a working brain to think with, too. "Am I?"

"You are." Rodney pushes himself into a seated position, then to his feet, carefully assisting John over to the bed. His touch is gentle -- almost fragile -- until the very last second when he _shoves_ John onto the bed.

His body bounces twice. "Ow."

"Oh, like that hurt." Rodney's climbs in afterwards, his mouth pink and shiny.

John traces the line of Rodney's lower lip with a forefinger, then follows it with his mouth. Those touches turn into kisses, deep and sure, and John has absolutely _no_ idea what's going on, because Rodney should be pouting and whining until John jacks him off at the very _least_ \-- not letting their bodies lie soft and comfortable together, mouths fused, eyes closed in contented pleasure.

"Rodney?"

"After your cat-nap, you're going to ride me," he murmurs, tone intimate and almost tender, despite his words. "And ride me _hard_. I want you to fuck yourself on me until you're _bruised_."

"After I nap?"

Rodney's arm snakes around John's waist, pulling him close enough to grind against for a moment -- he's hard, unsurprisingly, but not to desperate levels -- then settling back into soft, languid peace. "After we nap. Yes. So nap, John. I'm not going to be able to hang on to this erection for ever."

John tucks his face into Rodney's neck. "I'll suck you hard first," he offers.

Rodney's chuckles quake through both their bodies. "Cocksucker."

"Says the man with my come on his breath."

"Nap."

"Napping."


End file.
